


Inside This Place Is Warm

by luninosity, significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Chilly Days, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Love, M/M, Puppies, Revelations, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James mentioned in an interview that he likes dogs “sometimes.” This is the story of why. (Or: the story in which James and Michael have a puppy and each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside This Place Is Warm

**Author's Note:**

> We _had_ to write fic for this, right?
> 
> James' and Michael's puppy looks [like this](http://static.ddmcdn.com/en-us/apl/breedselector/images/breed-selector/dogs/breeds/glen-of-imaal-terrier_01_lg.jpg). 
> 
> Title and opening epigraph from The Neighbourhood’s “Sweater Weather”

  
_'cause it's too cold  
for you here and now  
so let me hold  
both your hands in _   
_the holes of my sweater…_   


  
  
It was a gorgeous blue-sky Saturday, the spring breeze gentle and cool, carrying with it the sweetness of crocuses and the damp freshness of recently-turned earth. Michael was smiling as he latched the gate of the dog park behind them, but not due to the sun on his face, or that lazy Saturday feeling of having all the time in the world.  It was the growing familiarity of that particular rattle-clang which prompted it, and the implication: this park that neither of them had been aware of until a few weeks ago was now one of _their_ places, belonging to him, James, and the little ball of fluff that they'd fallen head-over-heels for together.  
  
That ball of fluff was vibrating with excitement, dashing from side to side as far as his leash would allow, overjoyed as usual by the sights and smells and promise of fun.  “Now, Cyrano, you know the rule," James said, laughing as his hand got jerked by the snapping leash.  "One full lap of the park before we play.”  
  
They'd learned that the hard way.  Doggie business first, or Cyrano would forget his business entirely until some point in the future when he was bored—and he tended to get very, very bored while they were eating dinner, and their hands were holding utensils instead of being busy patting him.  
  
“That's right, family rule,” Michael said, just because he could, just to see if it would put the same warm smile on James' face that he could still feel on his.  
  
It did.  And James looking like that, eyes bright and smile fond, was one of the best sights in the world.  
  
A paved walking path circled the lawn at the center of the park, winding under virescent trees leafing out with the spring.  Not too hilly, and not too long; Michael approved of that, just as he approved of the comfortable benches scattered along the way in both sun and shade.  There were days when James couldn’t walk as smoothly and easily as he was today, pain spiking in that long-ago injury, and this little green corner of London seemed prepared to welcome him regardless. When James’ knee was stiff, stretching it here with Cyrano would be just enough to keep it limber, not enough to compound the ache, and the benches would be there for him if he needed to rest before heading back home.  
  
The nice weather meant more activity in the park than usual, even for a Saturday, and Cyrano was proving just how distractible he could be, still darting about at the end of the leash and refusing to walk in a straight line. James didn’t seem quite as taken with the weather as Michael; he’d hunched in on himself a little, the hand not holding the leash shoved down into his jacket pocket, his arm tucked into his side.  Michael slipped his hand into that pocket, gave those chilly fingers a quick rub before folding them into his own.  
  
“Only you would be cold today.”  
  
“Not only me,” James protested.  “Think of…butterflies, and salamanders.  Do you see any of them out today?”  
  
Michael raised an eyebrow.  “All right. You, and the creatures of the rainforest.”  
  
They wove around a couple with a beagle and an older man with a dachshund before Cyrano finally trotted over to a patch of grass and did what needed to be done.  Michael was looking off towards the trees, giving their puppy his privacy, when there was a sudden bounding weight on the small of his back.  He turned, pushing it off automatically, but not roughly; it was a black and white hound dog, a year or so old by the looks of it, bouncy and over-excited.  
  
The owner, a woman with warm brown skin and flyaway curls, looked horribly embarrassed, as if she'd love to hide her face in her hands if only she weren't so busy tugging on her dog's leash.  "I'm so sorry, he's still learning. _Down_ , Bertie!"  
  
"It's all right," Michael said, patting Bertie's head to show there was no harm done, and to encourage him to stay on the ground, because it looked like chances were good another leap might happen at any second.  
  
"He's adorable," James said, from Michael's left.  He'd moved a little further away, no longer within arm's reach—keeping Cyrano out of Bertie's range, Michael assumed.  Smart thinking.  The dog was making a thorough attempt at bathing the joints between Michael's fingers with his tongue, and while Michael could handle that sort of treatment, he wasn't sure their puppy was ready for anything similar.  
  
Nor was he sure about James' description of Bertie, truth be told.  Oh, he was a nice-looking hound, Michael supposed, but the word adorable was a much better fit for Cyrano.  Sleek, short fur like Bertie's just seemed boring compared to the unruly curls that always threatened to fall into Cyrano's big, soft eyes.  
  
Whenever Bertie's owner said “sorry,” she tended to duck her head to one side, letting her own curls spill over her cheek.  She was doing that a lot, apologizing for Bertie's behavior in between thanking James for the compliment, telling him how cute his dog was, beaming when James asked about Bertie's name… a question that wouldn't have crossed Michael's mind to ask, but finding out about people came to James like breathing, and Michael meant the comparison precisely: he really did think that James' drive to know and care for people ran every bit as deep as his body's need for oxygen.  
  
And not only people, at that. It’d been James who’d spotted their pup shivering on the side of the road, and James who’d picked him up in both arms, heedless of damp dirt and motorcycle leathers and their plans for a ride before the rain finally kicked in. Michael’d been the one to suggest them getting a dog, of course, but he’d not expected it to happen the very next day, and he’d sort of mentally assumed they’d go to a shelter and pick a friendly sturdy helpful kind of dog, not a tiny mop of wet fur that would have to grow into any type of assistance for James.  
  
But James had looked up at him, mist tangling in dark eyelashes and a puppy face buried in his chest, and Michael’s heart had informed him that he really didn’t have any say in the matter: this dog needed them, so they were getting this dog.  
  
And _their_ dog was unquestionably the best. Happy, loyal, exuberant, and _definitely_ the most adorable.  
  
The excitable hound wasn't named for Prince Albert, apparently—James' guess—but, “Bertie Wooster,” the woman corrected, looking down at her dog fondly.  “You know, P.G. Wodehouse?  Only he's sweet as can be, but I can admit, not incredibly bright.”  
  
"Ah, but being good-hearted is far more important," James said.  A swift breeze sent James' hair tumbling into his eyes, but he did nothing to stop it, one hand tight on Cyrano's leash, the other held open at his side, almost braced for something.  Ready to keep Cyrano out of trouble, most likely, although thankfully their pup was being good, content to ignore Bertie for the moment in favor of sniffing the grass at James' feet.  Or perhaps Cyrano was more intimidated than content; his little legs were so short and stubby, and he was so used to spending time with only Michael and James, nice, calm, humans, that this bigger, bouncier puppy probably had him feeling overwhelmed.  
  
“Our boy is Cyrano,” Michael offered.  It was really just an attempt at doing his bit for polite conversation, but as the words came out of his mouth— _our boy_ —he found he loved the way they sounded, loved getting to say them.  Shooting a teasing glance at James, he asked, “Who gets to tell her why?”  
  
“Hmm, you.   You can match her literary reference for literary reference…”  
  
 _But you'll make her smile_ , Michael thought, and said, “No.  You.”  
  
“I can just guess, if you'd like?”  Bertie's owner looked bemused, but also like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing and hearing; she kept glancing between James and Michael as if she couldn’t bear to take her eyes off either of them for long.  She said, “Cyrano de Bergerac?”  
  
“Half right,” James said, grinning.  He nodded at Michael.  "That's his.  Mine's Cyrano Jones—the trader who gave Uhura the very first tribble."  
  
Michael was right: James was the one who got the smile.  More than that, even; the woman’s hand flew over to her mouth, covering a burst of laughter, and letting Bertie’s leash slip just a bit.  "I didn't think of that!  That's wonderful!” she exclaimed, while Michael deftly removed dog paws from his waist.  
  
“Paws go on the ground, remember that,” he told Bertie, just as James said, “Never forget, Star Trek is always the answer,” to his owner.  
  
"We should let you go," she said, reining Bertie back in.  Reluctance was clear in her voice, and Michael thought he probably knew why, even before she said, “It was amazing meeting you.  Really amazing."  
  
"And you,” James said, voice as warm as the smile he gave her.  
  
And that was James all over, Michael thought, as they watched her walk away, Bertie scampering beside her, and as she glanced over her shoulder to look at them, one last time.  James hadn't said that to brush away the implication that she'd recognized them.  He'd said it because he'd liked talking to her, and he'd meant it.  
  
"You've been such a good boy," James said now, rubbing Cyrano between the ears.  "Ready to play?"  
  
Michael fished the bright red ball out of his pocket while they struck off across the lawn.  It was as much of an attempt at training as it was play; three months in, Cyrano was still learning about fetching and retrieving, and coming when called, among other things.  James thought they needed to enroll him in a few sessions with a proper trainer - "Someone who knows what they're doing," he'd said, "someone not me" - and it did seem like a good idea. They simply hadn't had a chance to set anything up yet, in the eight weeks Michael’d been back and home from filming. James hadn’t, evidently, wanted to do it without him; he supposed that that made sense, that both owners would need to be learning commands.   
  
He did wish that he’d been there longer, at the beginning. That he’d not needed to leave while James and Cyrano were still learning each other, James who’d never had a dog and Cyrano who’d never had a family. Three weeks of filming, in Venice, and he’d lived on text-messages saying _we’re fine_ and photos of brand-new collars and toys and water dishes, on reports of quick walks down the street and  James holding fluffy paws up to the webcam at night.   
  
But he was here now. Him, and James, and this dog park, and their boy.  
  
In a quiet corner near a willow tree, two rows of boxwood hedges came together to create a secluded, semi-enclosed nook.  It was the only place they felt safe letting Cyrano off his leash, with the bushes to help corral their ball of fluff, and even then only for short distances.  Michael got into position about ten feet away from Cyrano and James, and held up the ball.  While James unsnapped the leash, Cyrano twisted and turned, trying to give a good lick to the hand on the back of his neck.  James was talking to him, saying things Michael couldn't quite hear, but the laughter underneath the words was obvious.  
  
Michael watched them, Cyrano wriggling around in happy circles, James with the wind pinking his cheeks and a grin on his face, and his heart wrapped itself into a sudden knot of affection that he knew would never come undone.  
  
There was a squeaker built into Cyrano's toy, and their pup always looked so delighted when it responded to the snap of his jaws.  He threw his head back, looking up at James, overcome with pride and excitement— _I am the master!  The squeak belongs to me!_ —and when Michael called him, came trotting across the grass obediently, bright black eyes shining.  
  
“Go get it, boy!  Go get it!”  Michael tossed the ball back towards James, light and easy, and Cyrano raced off after it, hind legs kicking up adorably as he turned.  
  
“If he gets too worn out, someone'll have to carry him home,” James called, laughing, bending down to let Cyrano leap up onto his knees.  
  
"I nominate you," Michael shouted back.  Not out of laziness, but because the mental image of James carrying their cuddly, sleepy puppy through the streets of London in his arms, or tucked inside his jacket with only a tired little face peeking out, was impossible to resist.  
  
Later on, he would wonder if everything was his fault in more ways than one; if subconsciously, he had thrown the ball a little too hard on purpose, to encourage those legs to run.  
  
When it happened, when Michael's toss went too far and too wide and overshot James and Cyrano completely, his main thought was that James shouldn't have to go rummaging about in the hedges for Michael's mistake.  He jogged over and plunged in, while James placated Cyrano, who was circling about in confusion, unsure where his toy had gone and displeased with this turn of events.   
  
The bush was far too grabby for Michael's tastes, prickly little branches snagging at his shirt and hair, and a slight slope to the earth meant the ball had rolled further in than he'd expected.  He was flattening himself down, belly on the ground, and struggling forward on his elbows when he first heard the barking.  He thought nothing of it: they were at a dog park, for goodness' sake, there was very often quite a lot of barking going on, and if there _wasn't_ , it would be a very strange dog park indeed.  There was no reason to think it had anything to do with them.  
  
Except, as he learned when he disentangled himself from the shrubbery, leaves in his hair, a scratch on his wrist, and a slobbery red ball secure in his fist, this time it did.  
  
The sound had been muffled, distorted by the natural barrier of the hedge.  He hadn't realized the source was so close.  He hadn't realized the other dog was _right there_.  
  
It was large, too large, probably weighed more than James, for Christ's sake, a powerfully-built animal that stood as high as a man's waist, with a short tan coat, broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and a head that was practically the size of Cyrano's entire body.  That head was lowered, and the dog was barking furiously at their puppy.  And Michael took back any thoughts he'd had earlier about Cyrano being intimidated by Bertie, because he was certainly proving that he was no wimp now:  Cyrano's small paws were planted firmly in place, his head was thrown back, and his spine was quivering in anger rather than fear.  His voice wasn't as loud or as deep as the other dog's, but his _arf_ s were absolutely indignant.   
  
Michael's split-second of pride crystallized into horror.  Their little dog was brave, standing his ground, and that bravery was about to get him brutally hurt.  The fight that was coming was going to be truly horrible.  
  
And there was nothing Michael could do.  He was already on the move, running towards his family, but even a short distance was too far away, and that dog's teeth were so close to Cyrano's soft little body… but thank God, thank _God_ , James was there, because he would never leave their pup alone, and he was already stepping in, snatching up Cyrano and holding their squirming dog in his arms.  
  
Once again, pride turned into something that stole Michael's breath and made his heart pound in his chest.  That dog could hurt Cyrano, but it could hurt James, too, and not just because of its teeth and jaws.  James was strong, but that strength had got him into trouble in the past, and it might be about to do so again, and why was Michael still so far away, why was this single, terrible moment lasting so long?  James' knee had never been quite the same after that terrible stunt-gone-wrong, years before Michael’d ever been there to help, and subsequent insistence on _continuing_ to do his own stunts had left him in the hated knee brace on more than one occasion; if that large a dog jumped up against James in the wrong way, the weight alone could do real damage.   
  
And that large a dog was barking loudly up at James, now, who was saying, “Easy boy, easy boy,” but not being heard.  
  
But there was another voice, a stranger's, and thank Christ, the dog listened to that, and turned away from James.   
  
Breathless, Michael arrived at James' side just as a balding man in a blue hoodie did, snatching up his dog's leash from where it trailed on the ground, apologies pouring from his lips.  Michael's hands were shaking with anger and adrenaline, he wasn't interested in this man's excuses, and he was extremely disinclined to take the apologies gracefully—sweet, excited Bertie was one thing, but you either kept a dog like this firmly under control, or you didn't own it at all.  
  
How James could stand there so calmly, and nod pleasantly along with the man's words, Michael didn't understand.  The man was saying something about how the dog was a big coward really, he'd never bitten or attacked a soul, he barked so fiercely because he was afraid and hoped he could make people and other dogs go away… Michael didn't give a damn about any of it, knew his face was etched with fury in a way that said so quite clearly, and couldn't fathom how James could stand there looking so neutral and polite.  
  
Until James reached out a hand toward him, and Michael found that his fingers were trembling.  The shaking actually intensified when Michael enclosed that hand in his, as if Michael were both an anchor and an outlet for everything that James was keeping off his face.  
  
It wasn't anger.  Anger was a hot rush of blood, but James' fingers were freezing, and he was starkly pale in the spring sunshine, freckles standing out as darkly as pencil smudges.  Suddenly unable to take a single moment more, Michael cut in with, "Thank you for finally taking control of your dog," knowing full well exactly how close to the edge he sounded, even before the man flinched and stepped back.  "If you could now manage to take him elsewhere?"  
  
It was gratifying, just how quickly that happened.  
  
"Are you all right?  Is Cyrano all right?"  Instinctively, Michael smoothed his free hand over James' shoulder and all the way down his arm to his wrist, then over the crown of Cyrano’s head, checking that everyone was safe, everyone was whole.  
  
“We’re fine.”  Pulling his hand out of Michael’s, James reattached Cyrano’s leash and set him back on the ground. Cyrano wriggled and bounced, impatient. “Probably enough excitement for today, though. Could we go back home, even if it’s early?”  
  
“Of course. Yes. Here—” He took the leash out of James’ hand because that hand was still shaking, and then belatedly realized how patronizing that must’ve felt; he opened his mouth to apologize, but James wasn’t looking, eyes closed for a heartbeat or two, hiding all the blue.  
  
He thought about that phrasing again. James asking him, _could we_. Not being the decisive one. Not saying the unspoken please. And the grass crunched underneath their feet, as they headed back toward the gate.  
  
Other dog out of sight and now out of mind, Cyrano ambled cheerfully around their legs, and got distracted by a tree, a squirrel, an interesting blade of grass. Always came back, though, and trotted next to James as if sensing some distress. And distress was the right word. James was smiling, watching their pup scamper around, but the smile was trembling.  
  
He kept glancing at James, and not for the usual reasons, as they walked. Shivering. Hands in coat-pockets. Still too pale, more than he liked seeing, under all the freckles. The tiny flecks of ginger and gold caught the sunlight and twinkled hearteningly; but that was false courage, because James hadn’t said anything since asking if they could go back, and looked so cold, despite the best efforts of the sun.  
  
He played with the end of the leash in his hand. Then reached over and put his other arm around those tense shoulders, inches shorter than his. James looked up at him, startled and appreciative; relaxed just a fraction and matched their steps together, keeping time on the sun-and-shadows pavement.  
  
Better. Not completely right, not yet. But better.  
  
Dogs, he thought. And the memory presented itself, from months ago. Himself asking the question. And James saying yes. But not instantly. Not right away.  
  
He nearly tripped over a tiny crack in the sidewalk as belated comprehension hit. Stumbled; caught the leash and his balance, with the help of a sturdy arm around his waist.  
  
“All right?”  
  
“Fine. Sorry.” With a quick kiss to the closest temple, his lips tasting that wind-rumpled hair. “Thank you.”  
  
“Of course.” James leaned into him a bit more. Michael nearly demanded to know about the state of that leg. Bit his tongue; James was still talking. “I don’t mind catching you. Ah…not an innuendo. Though it could’ve been if I’d phrased it right. Oh, well.”  
  
“Later,” Michael promised, and kissed him again. They kept walking, in unison, while the pale sunbeams flirted with tree-leaves overhead. And he thought about the past.  
  
He’d brought over tea, that wetter steel-shaded evening three months ago; had set it on the table, and looked at James. Then sat down on the floor, propping one arm on bent knees, tangling the other hand in James’ hair. Like that, with James lying stretched across the supportive sofa-cushions, they could be face to face; James had lifted an eyebrow at him, but hadn’t moved, most likely because Michael’s hand was playing with his hair. “I could sit up.”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Can I at least have the tea?”  
  
“Of course.” The polished-wood floor was in fact a bit hard, but that didn’t matter. He’d leaned against the sofa, and put the hand back into James’s hair, after being support for the sip-taking. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Better. Are you all right?”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yes, you.”  
  
“I’m…” He’d wobbled the free hand, vague gesture not equivocation but honesty. Nothing else, for James. “Ten days.”  
  
“Nine, more accurately. You fly to Venice at an ungodly hour. That day shouldn’t count. I’m trying not to think about it.”  
  
“The hour, or me leaving? _Will_ you be all right, without me?” He’d attempt to reschedule the entire film, beginning to end, if James said yes. He’d eyed that aching knee, propped up on the fluffiest pillow they owned. The rain made it throb, every time.  
  
“I’ll manage. I’ve got research to do, anyway, for _Frankenstein_ …it’s been years since I’ve read it…I want to talk to Dan about his ideas for Igor and how we’re playing that relationship. Oh, and I’ve got meetings with our dialect coach—”  
  
“You mean you _aren’t_ going to be a Scottish Doctor Frankenstein?”  
  
“Oh, you’re hilarious. It’s only three weeks; you’ll be back before you’ve got time to miss me. Don’t worry.”  
  
“Don’t. I mean don’t say—you know. Don’t think it, either. I always miss you.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.” James had reached for the tea. Another unvoiced apology there, in the gesture. “I do know."  
  
"I was thinking…" He’d leaned over for a kiss. James smiled when their lips met, and after, when Michael only moved a centimeter or two away. “I don’t want you to be alone here. If we…what if we got a dog? Not a huge one, this isn’t that big a place. But it could, I don’t know, bring you toys or the phone if you need that or the paper, or something, and then you wouldn’t be, you know, by yourself. And you like animals—yes, I remember about the horses, sorry, most animals—and I like dogs and we do have nine days, we could do that before I leave, and—would you want that? Getting a dog? With me?"  
  
That didn’t elicit quite the enthusiastic yes he’d been hoping for—he’d had happy daydreams on more than one occasion about himself and a puppy and James, runs in the park and doggie treats and tail-wagging mornings, and maybe also some subtle encouragement for James to walk and stretch the leg when it was stiff. It wasn’t a no—James in fact didn’t say anything much, only lay there and looked at him, lips slightly parted—but it was also, indisputably, not the yes.  
  
“You do like dogs, don’t you?” He’d thought so. James liked the entire universe. Well, except for the horses; but that was the fault of tricky allergic reactions. Not about the horses themselves.  
  
“Sometimes,” James had said. Remembering, now, Michael heard the trepidation in that normally eager voice. More clearly than he’d heard it at the time. “I like dogs sometimes."  
  
“What does that—”  
  
“Michael…this is important? To you?”  
  
Because it was James, because they were honest with each other, because they were a them, he’d said yes. Had admitted to all those fantasies.  
  
James had smiled, and said quietly, “All right, then,” and if there’d been any uneasiness in the sea-blue depths he’d not been able to see it then.  
  
He snuck a glance at James now. That Scottish-fair skin remained whiter than normal despite the best efforts of gold-dust freckles, and that chill couldn’t be from the weather. The sun was coming out more forcefully. Wanting to help if it could, from above.  
  
James wasn’t limping, as far as he could tell. And hadn’t been jumped on, after all; hadn’t been knocked to the grass and left unable to stand. Had stood his ground, and Michael was breathless with amazement at the courage; colliding with the awe, though, was the sickness he still felt inside, the spike of fear in his gut. Lingering. Sharp and cruel.  
  
Back to their front steps, and he scrutinized every movement for any signs of hidden injury even though he knew that was ridiculous; he’d seen it all unfold and they’d walked away safe, but he couldn’t stop himself. James—of course—caught him watching and tried for a grin, but the expression came off wrong somehow, hollow. Michael exhaled, and felt the lump in his own throat.  
  
If he was this badly affected, was James even worse? Or was this something else, something that made James flinch when he offered, tentatively, “You were amazing back there, you know?” and got a headshake in response?  
  
Cyrano bounced over to his water dish and began slurping enthusiastically, splashing water all over the floor and into the hush.  
  
James sat down with a probably unconscious sigh of relief, and Michael opened his mouth, hesitated, went to hang up the leash, and turned around in time to see James run both hands over his face, a glimpse of profound shakenness buried behind eloquent fingers.  
  
He felt like an intruder, suddenly: looking in on some private emotion, something James hadn’t wanted him to see.  
  
That feeling hurt. Unexpectedly hard, and deep, and physical.  
  
He heard that word again, a bit of shrapnel out of memory: _sometimes_. James liked dogs sometimes. James liked _a_ dog. James liked _their_ dog.   
  
And then he thought, I’m so sorry, James, I didn’t know, and even without confirmation he was nearly certain that he was right.   
  
He didn’t say anything yet, because James was unaware of the eavesdropping and was obviously trying hard to be fine. He went into the kitchen, instead. Puttered around with the miraculous instant coffeemaker, found cinnamon cream, poked through the tin of biscuits until he’d discovered the last brandy shortbread, put it on a plate.  
  
“Here.”  
  
“Hmm?” James opened both eyes, all lovely blue, to inquire. No hint of dismay or distress; but James was far too good at making light of his own wounds. Michael knew that, too. “I could’ve sworn we were out of those. I was thinking I’d have to make more.”  
  
“I was hiding it.” He sat down. The two of them, side by side. Cyrano wandered over, said _arf!_ at James, who absentmindedly scratched his ears, and then flopped into his doggie bed at their feet, content. James smiled, watching, though the smile didn’t reach into the blue.  
  
“He’s almost too big for that bed, these days. We should buy him another one.”  
  
“He likes it. It cuddles him, sort of. But he could have a second one.” Careful. Very careful. No tactful way to ask, James, did I push you into getting a dog when you’d’ve never wanted to? “Feeling warmer?”  
  
“Oh, sure. All butterflies and rain-forest creatures present and accounted for. Why were you hiding it? Did you want it? Here.”  
  
“I was—” Saving it for you, he tried to say around the other half of the biscuit that James’d just snuck into the middle of his sentence. “—mmph—I know they’re your favorite. Sorry. Crumbs. Your fault.”  
  
James laughed, caught the crumbs with the other hand, licked them off his palm. Michael swallowed, not entirely because of the biscuit in his mouth.   
  
“What crumbs?”  
  
“James, are you afraid of dogs?”  
  
Sheer cliff’s-edge silence. The halting of all the laughter.  
  
Michael heard all his words again, just tumbling out there with no regard for decorum or feelings or pain, and hated his mouth and its apparent decision to hurt James all on its own.  
  
“Not…exactly,” James said, very slowly, and Michael said, panicking, “I’m so sorry, don’t answer that, that wasn’t how I meant to—it just came out, sort of, I thought—but I didn’t mean—you don’t have to tell me, I’d like it if you’d tell me, I love you, but you don’t have to—”  
  
“We’re a family,” James said this time, not looking at him, looking very determinedly at Cyrano’s sleeping lump, tiny puppy snores providing counterpoint. “You said that. Earlier. And I like that.”  
  
“I like that, too.” He leaned in, nudged their shoulders together, attempting to be whatever might be needed in that moment. Held his breath. James must’ve noticed the breathlessness, because the next sentences were absolutely honest, if rueful, a sort of relieved concession-at-last to Michael’s need to know.  
  
“All right. Family, then. You probably should know. I’m not scared of dogs in general…not, oh, a phobia or anything…you know I love our boy. And I’ve worked with dogs, on camera, you know that too.”  
  
“They’ve had trainers,” Michael noted, keeping his voice as noncommittal as possible. No reactions, nothing that might be taken badly, allowed. “Handlers. Leashes. You…you felt safe, that way?”  
  
James leaned into him, this time. Another small fraction of the tension crept away. “Yes.”  
  
“Can you tell me?”  
  
“It’s not…there’s not one specific instant I can point to. Not really. No, y’know, attacks or maulings or horrifically scarring incidents.”  
  
“Christ, James.” Was that a concern? Had that ever been a concern, at some point?  
  
“You know where I grew up. You know that neighborhood, right, it’s not the friendliest of places…”  
  
“Yes?” He’d visited, with James, a few times. Had been both surprised and unsurprised by the rough edges to passing gazes, the stray weeds poking through sidewalks, the palpable hardness in the air. He’d heard some of James’ stories.   
  
He’d found himself grateful that James had made it out, that those eyes could laugh and look at the world and see excitement around every corner; he’d understood for perhaps the first time where that core of strength came from, the iron under the spun-sugar exuberance that let James understand so well those characters who’d do anything to accomplish their goals, to win, to survive.  
  
It wasn’t the _worst_ place a tiny boy with enormous blue eyes and ginger freckles and boundless imagination could’ve grown up. Most people did have jobs, of the working-class, blue-collar variety. James’d had his grandparents, if not his parents, and his sister, for family.  
  
And Michael still sometimes found himself wanting to go back in time and make James a present of his own childhood: his father laughing and testing new recipes at home for the hotel’s grand receptions, his mother encouraging him to pretend to be Superman, to hang model X-Wings from his ceiling and dream that he could fly…  
  
He knew that James had come within a tide’s turn of joining the navy. It’d been a way out. And they’d’ve never met, himself and those spectacular blue eyes.  
  
James was continuing to talk. He should be listening. Not imagining James dead at sea somewhere, first wave-washed casualty because James was brilliant at whatever he did and would’ve been anyone’s first choice for the deadliest missions, the objectives requiring skill and determination and compact muscles and flexibility.  
  
He bit his lip, very hard. Present. Focus. Right. And James was afraid of dogs, and hadn’t told him.  
  
“So, well…when I was younger, I used to walk home from school.” James reached over, took Michael’s hand, toyed with fingers restlessly. Michael, forgetting to exhale again, held very still. Anything James wanted. Anything to help.  
  
“I’d walk past…not the worst spots, Gran made sure we were out of that, so don’t think, y’know, I was ever in danger or anything…”  
  
They likely had a differing definition of the word, but Michael determinedly kept his mouth shut, and tried to encourage with his expression: go on, please, I want to know.   
  
“But there were these older guys, and they’d hang around by the end of the block, and they had dogs, big ones, and they’d think it was funny…” That Highland-amber voice paused, picking out words from years ago. Shaping memories to offer up to him.  
  
“I wasn’t…well, I was short, and younger than they were, and I liked books and fantasy and baking in the kitchen, and their dogs were trained to, ah, they used them for dog-fights, on Friday nights…” Another pause. Would be a good point to speak up, except Michael couldn’t find any words. His bones creaked with years-too-late anger.  
  
“So they liked to pretend to let the leashes slip, and see what I’d do.” A shrug. “Usually, I ran. And it’s stupid, I know, looking back; they weren’t trying to hurt me, they’d’ve been as horrified as anyone if it’d gone wrong, but I couldn’t—I did run. Because what if it wasn’t pretend, what if they did slip, one time…but they never did. Nothing happened, really.”  
  
That wasn’t true. Everything had happened. And Michael’d never known. “What…” He had to stop. To clear his throat. “What did you do?” Because James would’ve done something. Would’ve found a way to defend himself. That had to be the answer.  
  
“Oh, well.” Another small shrug, dismissive, retreat behind thickening accent and flickering eyes; James _was_ a brilliant actor, but wouldn’t resort to that around him, and the paradox broke his heart even as it offered hope. The reaction, the retreat, was honest.  
  
In the middle of that sudden confusingly hopeful heartbreak, he thought for a second, made a decision, transferred James’s hand to his other one. Scooted closer, offered his now-free arm, folding it around tired shoulders. James looked at him in some surprise, then settled into being held. And the walls dropped away as quickly as they’d risen.   
  
“It was when I lost a book, that did it. Library book, too, and I had to go the next day and explain I’d dropped it and hadn’t gone back, and I didn’t say why, and the librarian was too nice about it and Gran made me pay for it, and that wasn’t the worst, the worst was she looked so disappointed…I found a different path home, then. All the way round. Took an extra hour. Met some very nice girls. Turned out later they were prostitutes, mind you, and I’d found a way home through the…attractive district.”  
  
“James…”  
  
“They used to give me tea,” James said, thoughtfully. “Oh, and then there was the time that one of them took me in because it was raining, and then I lost my virginity at age ten, to a girl who baked the best chocolate-chip biscuits, and you know I never could resist desserts, and her name was Cookie, even, and—”  
  
Michael opened his mouth, then caught sight of the sparkle in all the blue, and gave up and started laughing, mostly out of relief. “You lunatic. How much of that was true?”  
  
James grinned. Squeezed his hand. But the grip lingered: nearly fine, but not quite. Not yet. “Most of it, actually. Up until the virginity part. Gran would’ve thrown _both_ shoes at me, not just the usual one.”  
  
Michael winced. Ran a thumb over the back of the hand in his, broad and flexible and lined with old souvenirs of stage and screen, long-healed cuts and nicks and scars. “I’m sorry.” Not only for the memories. For asking more than he’d known, when he’d blithely said, let’s get a dog!  
  
“It’s fine. That only lasted about a year, anyway. Got older, new school, new way home, all that.” From the doggie bed, a sudden _whuff!_ made them both jump. Michael kept his grip on that hand, his arm around sweater-fuzzy shoulders. Not too tight, not trapping James in place, but being there.  
  
James smiled again. Stretched out a sock-clad foot to rub a fluffy upturned tummy. “I do love him, you know.”  
  
“I know. What can I do? To help?”  
  
“This is helping. But if you want more…when we go back there, the dog park…that was why we’d only gone once, the day we found it, without you. I can, but I’d rather have you there with us. Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be. And of course yes. What else?”  
  
“I…don’t know. Maybe those obedience classes? For him, but also for us; knowing some actual commands might help. Even if they’d not work on—something like today—but I might feel better around other dogs?”  
  
That was still a question, upward uncertain inflection in that glorious voice; Michael’s chest hurt with the sound. But it was also James asking, thinking, trying to figure out how to move forward.   
  
Even if he weren’t desperately in love with the man beside him already, he would be now. All over again.  
  
“We'll find a trainer online tonight.  One that Cyrano'll love, and that we'll love.”  
  
James squeezed his hand again, a thank you, even as his lips twitched in amusement at Michael's eagerness, his determination.  Michael could read all that body language without question, but when James cleared his throat and hesitated, found he had no idea what James might be about to say.  It felt like failure, for a heartbeat; but no, he reminded himself, no.  It was what conversation was for.  
  
“I wanted him because he needed us.  I wanted him because you did, and because he's got one of the cutest faces I've ever seen.”  James' voice was quiet, measured, but he shot Michael a flirty grin, as if to say: and there's the other one.  “And because…us choosing a new path, and setting off down it together?  That's what I wanted more than anything.”    
  
Michael had to swallow before he could speak. “Me too.  Me too.”  
  
The warmth blooming in his chest was sweet at first, but soon it threatened to blacken and char.  He needed the path to be smooth for James and their boy; wanted the hedges beaten back, the way ahead clear, the world free of dark things that reached from the shadows, be they claws or teeth or thorns.      
  
He didn't have the power to make any of that so.  He'd proven it, today.  
  
James wiggled his fingers in Michael's in a way that most definitely meant _kiss me_ , and Michael did, closing his eyes as he touched those soft lips.  He shifted, drawing James closer, and his foot slipped alongside James' to rest gently on Cyrano's tummy.  It wasn't that precise moment of connection that jolted Michael into realization; it was a moment or two later, when he found his foot being wetly, lovingly, and thoroughly chewed on, when he nearly bit James' lip in surprise, when he pulled Cyrano up into their laps and they held his happy wiggling body together, that Michael truly _saw_.  
  
Cyrano, standing up to that beast of a dog; James, just walking into the park in the first place, then bravely holding their boy in his arms; himself, standing up to his own moment of helplessness, and making it through.  The three of them, strong in their own ways, strong _together_ , forcing the path to lead them safely home.  
  
Michael kissed James again, fingers tangled together in Cyrano's fur.  And in his heart, so high and bright he thought surely his family must be able to feel its glow, a hearth-fire burned.


End file.
